


Feeding and Care of your Werewolf

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is not used to being cared for, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Getting Together, M/M, Stiles Stilinski is a Nurturer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 10:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15661539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Stiles shows up where he wants, when he wants. And sometimes, that's Derek's loft. When he's not invited. "You have like no snacks here, dude." He slams the cupboard door and tries the fridge, but the story is the same."I wasn't expecting company."





	Feeding and Care of your Werewolf

It starts in Derek's loft, because of course it does. Stiles doesn't respect boundaries; he likes to think its his thing, part of his charm, but he knows really its because underneath it all he can be obnoxious when he wants to be. There just doesn't seem a lot of point teasing things out slowly. Not when any day can be your last.

So yes. Stiles shows up where he wants, when he wants. And sometimes, that's Derek's loft. When he's not invited. "You have like no snacks here, dude." He slams the cupboard door and tries the fridge, but the story is the same.

"I wasn't expecting company." Derek is reading a magazine on the couch. The front features a shirtless man - Stiles isn't sure if its one of those weightlifting and diet magazines or something one of the girls left behind after the last pack meeting/cuddle-fest. Either way, he can't imagine it's as riveting as Derek is pretending it is.

"You need to go shopping." He grabs some yoghurt. It's the crap kind, full of preservatives and fake fruit flavouring, but when he opens the pot its half full, so he rifles through the drawer for a spoon.

"Yep."

Okay, so Derek's not in a talking mood. Fine. Stiles takes his yoghurt and stretches out on the floor. He has a new (well old, but new to him) grimoire in his backpack he's been meaning to crack open anyway.

 

\--

The second time it happens is at the grocery store, because Beacon Hills is such a small town that you can actually bump into multiple people you know while running errands.

"Derek!" He pushes his cart over to the tall hunk of leather jacket, drawing up alongside him. "Fancy seeing you here, man."

"Yes, fancy, us both doing a weekly shop on a Saturday, one of the two days a week both of us have free from work or college. Almost as if we need to eat to survive. The coincidences astound."

Sarcastic mood, check. He can work with that. Sarcastic Derek is at least a communicative Derek. He glances down at their shopping carts, though, and his mouth falls open.

"Dude, I have never seen so many frozen waffles and cans of beans in one place. Are you catering for an elementary school lunch?" He doesn't like to brag (okay, maybe he does), but his own cart looks much better. It's holding more than one vegetable, for one, as well as a form of meat that hasn't been reconstituted.

"I need the calories." Derek hunches his shoulders a little, turning away to throw multiple boxes of sugary cereal on top of the rest of the carnage.

"Do they _have_ to come from E numbers?"

"I've gotta go, Stiles. See you at the meeting on Thursday." And then he's gone - and he must be using a bit of super speed somewhere (or charming the cashiers, Stiles thinks ruefully), because by the time he's selected the last couple of items on his list - shampoo and toothpaste - the werewolf is nowhere to be seen.

 

\--

The meeting is full of junk food, because they're mostly still teenagers and that's what teenagers (and Derek, it appears) eat when left to their own devices. Multiple pizzas disappear, and someone had the bright idea of ordering Chinese as well, plus there's all the soda, chips, dips, and assorted extras that tend to turn up whenever people gather in large numbers and think they should bring something. Most of it goes - the trash bag he fills at the end is pretty much full of empty packets - but he squirrels a few bits and pieces back in Derek's cupboards.

"Hey, you could do with going shopping again," he comments. The fridge is almost empty as he places the one Chinese carton that didn't get inhaled by a werewolf racing their metabolism inside. No doubt Derek will polish it off when he gets hungry - in about two hours.

"Yeah, I'll get to it."

"You need to eat a lot, right?"

"We all do." Derek is gathering cushions from the floor, placing some back on the chairs and stacking others to be tucked away in the cupboard until next time.

"It must get expensive."

"More of an issue for Scott than me." Stiles' head snaps up. "He won't let me help," Derek adds, but sweeps a hand round at the room. "I try and fill them up here. I know it can't be easy on everyone's parents."

"They generally just think its growing teenagers," muses Stiles, "but thanks."

There is silence as they continue straightening the room. Derek disappears to stash the cushions and Stiles wipes away the sticky soda spillages on the counter.

"I should get going," he pulls at the sponge in his hand, rolls a small section that breaks off between his forefinger and thumb. "My dad will be home in an hour, and if I don't get something healthy in the oven he'll make like we just did." He frowns. "Except heart disease is a real concern for him." Stiles ties the garbage sack and swings it up onto his back. "I'll drop this off for you on the way out."

Derek nods. "Thanks."

 

\--

Stiles plans his shopping expeditions, so when he gets home he opens the fridge and is greeted by a plethora of brightly coloured veggies. He grabs peppers, eggplant, mushrooms and zucchini; his dad loves any Italian food, so a vegetable lasagne is just about acceptable, and will pass with only a brief mention of the lack of meat. He chops and stirs, layers, and pops it in the oven.

After dinner, there's a lot of leftovers. It was to be expected, its a recipe for six - Stiles likes batch cooking, it means he doesn't have to worry if the supernatural steals him away for a few days - but with him still full of pizza and spring rolls, there's even more than usual.

He portions it up - three individual lunches, plus three side salads, enough for the rest of the week at the station. One way to keep his dad from the burger van that has started pulling up just outside. Stiles has muttered darkly to his father that it must be a front for crime; feed all the police until they're slow and unhealthy, then strike. His dad always just claps his shoulder. Apparently he knew Bertha in high school. She went to chef school. She has an Instagram. She's not a criminal and she's not a supernatural creature, Stiles.

He eyes the last double portion. He could pop it in the freezer; lasagne freezes well. An image of Derek flashes through his mind, scarfing leftover Chinese and the crumbs and dust from all the chip bags. He sighs, and boxes it up.

 

-

"Stiles?"

It's an honest question. He might pop round whenever he feels like it, but he did only leave three hours ago.

"Here."

He shoves the Tupperware at Derek, turns tail, and climbs into his Jeep. As he drives away, he can see Derek standing there, speechless, lasagne in his hands.

 

\--

After that, it becomes a bit of a thing. Not on purpose! But Stiles is a nurturer, okay - he always has been - and its really no trouble to take what he was making his dad and double it. He's protecting himself, really. Scott might be alpha, but Derek is his second and if he keels over from lack of vitamins they're all in trouble.

He's subtle about it, of course. He sneaks wholegrain cereals and some vegetable crisps into Derek's cupboard (because _Stiles_ wants to be able to snack when he comes over, of course) and drops off whatever else he's cooking. Leftovers, extras. Nothing cooked specially, because he knows that would make Derek uncomfortable, and the last thing he wants is to have a conversation about why he's pushing food on his friend like some kind of feeder. So he just leaves it around. They have sweet potato curry, frittata, salads, vegetable kebabs. Anything that can be eaten as is or shoved in a microwave. Sometimes he leaves it on the table when he heads home, sometimes he pops it in the fridge while Derek fetches something from the other room. Sometimes he drops it off when Derek is out.

It's fine. He's not being weird.

 

\--

"Your curry has grown mould." Derek has his head in the fridge, so its muffled, but understandable. Stiles climbs over the back of the sofa and perches, legs tucked so his feet lay flat against the back.

"What curry?"

"You left your lunch here - I dunno, what is this, some kind of squash? With spinach?"

Damn. "Sweet potato."

"Huh, yeah could be."

"That was for you."

"But its yours."

"No," Stiles sighs. So much for trying to do something nice. He'd forgotten that Derek was sometimes incapable of recognising kindness. "I had extras, I left it here so you had something to eat that wasn't take-out, frozen waffles or cereal." He hops off his perch and takes the box from Derek. It's definitely a lost cause; he's not even sure he should use the Tupperware again. "Haven't you eaten any of it?"

"Any of what?"

He shoulders past Derek to rifle through the fridge and there it is. Boxes he thought had been eaten have just been shoved to the back - he'd wondered why he wasn't getting any empties returned - and that's just great. Stiles hates food waste, but he wouldn't want to try some of the stuff in here unless he had an iron stomach.

"All the food I've been making for you," he mutters, socking Derek on the arm as he pushes past him. He grabs his book bag off the floor and stuffs his feet into his trainers, breaking down the backs. Stupid.

"For me?"

He gives himself a little shake. Don't be an idiot, Stilinski. He pastes a smile on. "Most of that's probably gone; don't worry about the containers just chuck it all. There's a salad from yesterday that will work for tonight, but then - I get it don't worry." He waves it all off, and opens the loft door.

"Get what? I don't get it!" He turns around, because there was an edge of wildness in that. And seeing Derek, confused and bathed in the glow of the refrigerator as dusk creeps in to the loft - that breaks something.

"I've been leaving you food! Because I'm some kind of creep, and I can't respect anyone's boundaries, we know this! But it's okay, I didn't realise it would be so - I didn't think, that's all, it's fine, I'll stop-"

"You were cooking for me?"

Stiles shrugs, one arm still holding the door. A draft is sweeping up the stairwell, so he drops it. Lets it close, then crosses his arms and leans back on the treated wood. "Leftovers," he tries. They were after all. Just he didn't normally put so much thought into what would travel well, keep well, reheat well. "I cook for my dad all the time, so..."

"So you brought them for me." Derek is holding several tubs in his arms, and he looks down at them. "That's..."

"Weird."

"Nice. That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time."

"Dude, Scott rescues you from kidnappers and Melissa sews up gaping holes in your side, its hardly-"

"That's necessary." Derek places the tubs on the kitchen table and strides around until he's crowding Stiles against the door. Stiles wonders what's up with him that this is familiar, comforting. Running with werewolves will obviously skew your perceptions of what's safe. "This is nice. Was nice."

"I get it, I'm not nice."

"No, Stiles," Derek drags a hand through his own hair, pulling a little at the dark strands. "You're the only one who's nice. To me. Apart from maybe Kira, but she's..."

"Cotton candy to everyone?"

Derek grins. "Exactly. And you're not. But you are to me. I didn't..." he pauses, grimaces, and then pushes out with his eyes closed, "I didn't recognise it."

Stiles sags, slightly, rests one hand on Derek's upper arm. His jumper is soft to the touch, and it turns into a light stroke. "I can keep going," he murmurs. "Until you get used to it." Derek nods, his eyes still closed. "But not in public; I have a reputation to maintain as a badass."

Derek snorts, looks up. "No one thinks you're a badass."

"I am too!"

"The most you can hope for is semi-unpleasant-ass."

"That's weak, Derek. And not nice."

"That's okay, I've been reliably informed that you're not nice either."

Stiles has nothing to say to that, so he just looks; taking in Derek's eyes, his nose, the way his eyebrows twitch under Stiles' investigation. The silence stretches. "Maybe we fit then."

They do, is the thing. Ever since they met they've been slotting together one way or another - as adversaries, as reluctant allies, as the brains and the brawn. As friends. Derek hasn't moved back, and Stiles is suddenly aware of how close they are - the centimetres between their faces, the way the air between their bodies is trapped, and warms. The heat in his cheeks. He licks his lips.

"Maybe we do."

Their noses bump as both try to initiate the kiss, but that's okay. Their way needs to have some knocks, some friction. They always click eventually.


End file.
